Dear Lord, please, oh please make the zombies go away. Please. If you make the zombies get away from the door I'll do anything. I'll become a priest. I'll stop drinking. I'll be nicer to Mom. And no more chronic masturbating. I mean it. I never ask you for anything, but I’m asking now: you have to save me. You have to. I’ll be a better person, I’ll be worth it, I promise. Oh God, please let the door hold.
Why didn’t I hang a stronger door? I knew when I bought this place the door was cheap. Why, God?